


In quiet comfort we’ll meet

by bigchickcannibalistic



Series: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. [5]
Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, With a Dash of Smut, a vacation fic, literally 12k words of these two being in love, so basically over 12k words of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 14:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15366435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: Ends with Sherlock thinking of the summer house, of a spacious house next to a serene lake, of cuddling near the fireplace, of taking a break and just being with Wato. Thinks about their anniversary, whines at the fact it’s one week away.Decidesfuck it.“We’re going on a vacation.”And Wato surprisingly mumblesAll rightand seemingly goes back to sleep – just leaves Sherlock stunned and staring dumbly.Then Wato bolts upright and hisses, “Wait, vacation???”And Sherlock laughs into her pillow for a good minute.Or watolock vacation trip fic





	In quiet comfort we’ll meet

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be 5k at most. I literally blinked and it was 12k. So uh, anyone up for 12k of these two disasters being in love?
> 
> Also special shoutout to Suave-Alpaca for listening to me ramble about this and bouncing ideas and generally screaming along with me bc of these two disaster wives. This wouldn't have happened without you, dude <3
> 
> Title's from "The Path" by Miracle of Sound

 

_“There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees, A quiet house, some green and modest acres (…) I would have time, I thought, and time to spare, With only streams and birds for company, To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.”_

_— Mary Oliver, from A Dream Of Trees in “New And Selected Poems: Volume One”_

 

———————

It’s not that she actively thought about it. It’s just a date after all. One specific moment in time, one blip in a continuous function. One microscopic moment in the grand scheme of things that totally hasn’t left her mind for the past week, not since she happened a glance at the calendar, no more than a second, and still, still.

It’s just a date – a moment they shared, a moment that Sherlock’s been leading Wato to with chocolates, a moment that’s been building for far longer than either of them cares to admit. They might not even celebrate – _lies_. Wato would insist on celebrating and Sherlock for all her gripes would follow along, would give her anything and everything she wants just to see that adorable smile on Wato’s face.

So all right, the date of their anniversary is on her mind. Yes, it’s not for another three months. Sherlock prefers to be prepared. After all, one doesn’t simply plan a surprise for their anniversary in the last moment.

And one doesn’t plan without taking into account all of the facets.

———————

Kento looks bemused as he sidesteps the hole in the steps – seems the old theatre is degrading faster – there have been more rain showers of late, and Sherlock’s spotted several holes in the ceiling – surprisingly uninhabited by bats, given the humidity and space –

 _Focus_. Kento in front. Bemused Kento in front.

“I didn’t say it was an emergency this time,” Sherlock points out before Kento can say anything, grinning at his raised brow. “Even if, following the standardised metric system, this would qualify as an emergency.”

“Standardised or merely Sherlock-ised?”

“I’m simply covering all of the bases.”

Kento hums noncommittedly and leans on the seat across from Sherlock, rotting steps between them. “So what’re you hiding from Wato?”

“Why would I be hiding anything?”

“Does she know about this safehouse?”

“I didn’t have an opportunity –”

“That’s a no.”

Sherlock pouts, dips her lips into the cutest pout she can muster and it earns a sigh from Kento. His shoulders slump minuscule before he crosses his arms, the only tell he’s giving up on his point and Sherlock grins at the small victory.

“Hey.” Kento tilts his head. “Is our parents’ home still in one piece?”

“Which one?”

“The lakeside one.” Sherlock raises her brow pointedly. As if any of the other houses mattered enough for them to keep, as if they weren’t so far away from the house they grew up in that any possibility of actively using them required constant travel. And Kento’s moustache tugs upward, knowingly but Sherlock can’t puzzle out what he’s fishing for.

Sherlock slides out of her seat with a _creak_ , and she half expects for the seat to follow her but it merely shifts closer to the ground with another grating _creak._ Ignoring Kento’s look, Sherlock leisurely makes her way down the stairs. After a few moments Kento’s footsteps echo behind her.

“The groundskeeper visits on occasion, last I checked.” Kento’s voice is cautious. Still fishing.

“Or so he says.” Sherlock turns into row 3, skips over the toppled seats. Kento never seemed the type for fishing. Too dull, always tugging the pole before the fish could bite. Always snuck glances at Sherlock’s book. “How quickly could he clean the place?”

“Sherlock –”

“Would three months be too generous? He is getting close to retirement but studies have shown mountain air rejuvenates one’s body –”

“You’re not faking your death again, are you?”

Sherlock turns sharply, two seats away from her target – two seats from standing right below one of the side balconies – and Kento raises his hands at the force of her glare. Fishing at the wrong stream. It’s only when his eyes dart downward that Sherlock realises she’s holding onto a seat like a vice. She releases it with a huff, shakes the numbness from her left hand in two exaggerated swings.

“No.” _Never._ Never again. Not when it would mean breaking Wato’s heart, when it brings forth the memory of Wato crying against her chest, choked sobs pressed into her shoulders. Not when Wato still has nightmares, how Sherlock wakes sometimes with Wato holding onto her arm like a lifeline.

How sometimes her hand isn’t enough, her words aren’t enough and she curls around Wato, has to press Wato’s hand against her chest, runs her fingers along Wato’s scars, lets Wato press her ear to Sherlock’s chest, presses words into her forehead. How she kisses away the _sorry’s_ on the edge of Wato’s lips.

“I want to take her there,” Sherlock confesses to the lingering silence. She could’ve whispered it and Kento would’ve still heard. She squints up at the underside of the balcony, following where it’s connected to the wall and – there it is. A hole big enough for a bat to slip through in flight.

“I’ll tell him he has two months to clean up.” Kento sounds closer than Sherlock expected and she doesn’t have to turn around to look at him. The light only illuminates half his face, but it’s more than enough to note the amusement on his features. “And that he throws away all those old drawings you did.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And Sherlock’s not blushing. Definitely doesn’t slap him on the shoulder on the way out, definitely doesn’t hear his barked out laugh.

Definitely doesn’t think about a house by the lake, surrounded by a tame forest and Wato lounging by a fireplace; and most definitely doesn’t sigh at the image. (She does smile like a smitten fool. Because at least she’s _Wato’s_ smitten fool.)

———————

(“Sherlock is that a bat in your pocket?”

“… No.”)

———————

Her phone buzzes along the table as she and Wato struggle to move it into the corner like Mrs Hatano asked. It comes dangerously close to slipping off and Sherlock jerks one side upward to try and balance it out, nearly causes Wato to lose her grip.

The table’s barely set down when Sherlock snatches her phone, unlocks it blindly and casts a quick glance at the texts, from her brother no less –

_The groundskeeper has been suitably scared._

_Also he might think you’re the devil, so uh, sorry?_

Wato sends her a curious look at the volume of her snort, and Sherlock quickly scrolls over to the image of a man walking his duckling so Wato sees that and not anything that would spoil the surprise. And her squeal of delight is a delightful bonus.

———————

“You’re sure you know the way?”

_“For the fifth time, Sherlock, yes I know the way. I even have the coordinates and the multitude of google maps screenshots you sent me.”_

“And what about –”

 _“And the groundskeeper’s biography, including but not limited to his age, his family history, the eye colour of his grandkids.”_ There’s rustling and a curse as something tumbles on the other side. It sounds suspiciously like a rack of clothes. _“And before you say anything, yes, I got all 13 ways to incapacitate – sorry, flat out murder someone with a pen. Because that definitely doesn’t make this whole trip seem creepier than it needs to be, darling.”_

“I’m simply making sure you’re prepared. Though statistically you have enough pens for five people.” Sherlock frowns at Irene’s chuckle, but opts to concentrate on the hand running through Wato’s hair. She’d fallen asleep in Sherlock’s lap again, nose pressed to Sherlock’s stomach, a book on the history of dogs lodged between her and the back of the couch.

_“You never know when you’ll meet a fan, Sherlock.”_

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with your forgetfulness.” Or the way Irene starts fiddling with things when she’s sitting for too long. It used to be bracelets, used to break two every month. But over the course of five coffee dates, Sherlock’s seen her fingers dance around a pen, never the same one – twirl it around, flick it as she talks, tap it against the table until Sherlock gave her a _look_.

A familiar sort of restlessness. The same whispering of a list of experiments, bulleted and hidden underneath a stack of books; leading her eyes every odd beat to the stack of books she’s yet to organise; simmers beneath the tips of her fingers as she taps against her phone.

Wato mumbles something. Sherlock’s hand stills, ready to slip away should Wato wake, holds her breath without reason, really, but she only feels like she can relax once Wato resettles, once she buries her nose impossibly closer, once she feels the pull of Wato’s inhale and the ease of her shoulders.

And as abrupt as it came the restlessness fades. Always slips away, fades to the background, to an insignificant murmur, a wayward twitch when Wato’s around, recedes at Wato’s touch, shies away from her gaze.

She slides her thumb over Wato’s cheek, runs it down to the corner of her mouth – mimics the twitch of Wato’s lips – and up to the edge of her brow, smooths over the wrinkles until Wato exhales.

_“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure everything’s prim, moth- and spider-free for you babes.”_

Until a hand comes up to stop her fingers, until it drags Sherlock’s hand down and tucks it firmly under her chin. Until she feels a smile pressed against her stomach and her heart drums in her ears.

She nearly misses Irene’s snickered out _“I’ll make sure the tables are sturdy”_ but even if her attention wasn’t on the thumb running over her knuckles, Sherlock wouldn’t have an answer other than a scoff by the time Irene ends the call.

———————

 _I also left a few extra sets of clothes. Have fun babes_ – greets her a few mornings later, and the absurd amount of heart and smirk emojis is almost enough for Sherlock to toss the phone back and just return to the warmth of her bed. Just turn over, bury her nose in Wato’s neck and _breathe_.

Maybe plant a few kisses until Wato’s hands slide higher, slide under her sleeping shirt, until nails drag along her back. Until Wato’s breathing hitches beneath her lips, until a haggard breath shifts her bangs. Until Wato shifts so instead of her neck it’s her lips sliding against Sherlock’s, a question lost in between, left to linger as a groan.

Until a leg slides against her and Sherlock wraps her hand around the thigh to keep it in place. Until Sherlock slides her free hand along Wato’s underwear, light, playful, teasing until Wato bites her lip and Sherlock presses her palm _firm._

Maybe they stay amid the sheets a while longer, let the morning come a bit slower, lost in each other, lost in the gasps, the moans, in the touch, the smell, the _heat_. Lost in a burst of giggles as Sherlock finds a ticklish spot. Lost in a wrestle as Wato tries to slip away from Sherlock inquisitive fingers.

Lost in the languid, teeth-rotting, diabetes-inducing sweet kiss that steals all the words from Sherlock’s extensive vocabulary. Save for three.

So maybe she forgets all about Irene’s text until she snatches her phone to look at the time, maybe it takes Sherlock a second longer to realise what she’s talking about (and that absolutely everything to do with Wato playing with her hand, with Sherlock biting her ear to get her to settle but it (predictably, Wato’s ears are sensitive) sends her giggling anew.)

And maybe she sends her _Thanks but that’s not for another month_ while drinking her coffee, well over an hour after Irene sent it.

And should Irene reply immediately with a _what_ , with an excessive amount of question marks, Sherlock easily hides her grin behind her cup, easily ignores the series of gifs Irene floors her with in favour of enjoying breakfast with Wato.

Should she get a call 20 minutes later and have a comically infuriated Irene (with the anger blown completely out of proportion because _of course_ it is), should the woman open the call with a scandalised _How dare you,_ _I fought spiders for you!_ Sherlock would merely toss the phone to Wato and say, “It’s for you, Irene says hi.”

Because Irene was sworn into secrecy – well as sworn as one can be when they immediately vow to keep your anniversary plans a secret without even hearing out the rest of it. Honestly, it’s bad practice. Sherlock could’ve added murder, arson and theft of several pieces of high literary merit after Irene had cut her off with an excited gleam in her eyes.

(And as bad a practice as it is, Sherlock couldn’t say it didn’t feel nice, didn’t have her hiding a smile behind her cup even though she’s certain Irene saw.)

———————

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mrs Hatano asks over breakfast, or second breakfast for Sherlock – _a proper_ breakfast, if Mrs Hatano’s to be believed. It’s just the two of them. Wato’s out for her self-defence classes and Mrs Hatano’s bird is busy somewhere in the garden last Sherlock saw.

Sherlock takes the 1.5 minute between Mrs Hatano taking a sip of her tea and lowering the cup to look at Sherlock; takes the time to wrack her brain over the last 20 ideas she had in the past 3 hours, looking for the one Mrs Hatano’s aware of enough to warrant worry.

It has to be the one about making a potent fertiliser by using eggshells and beetles.

“The beetles won’t escape,” Sherlock assures. But the rise and fall of Mrs Hatano’s shoulders isn’t in resignation, or dread at the possibility of beetles escaping and roaming 221b. No, it’s like all those times Sherlock insisted she and Wato aren’t friends, matched with the thin line of her lips and folding her hands on her lap – like Sherlock’s missed something obvious but _what?_

“The Redwood house holds a lot of memories, doesn’t it?”

And Sherlock stops, fingers slip off her spoon and it clatters against the edge of her bowl but mercifully stays inside it. She slides the bowl away, leans back in her chair and casts Mrs Hatano a questioning look. Squints her eyes at the woman’s chuckle.

“You left your computer on with the map of the area. I remember its address, you know.” And she offers a harmless grin that’s anything but. Honestly Sherlock’s both impressed, because even Sherlock had to dig through boring bureaucratic papers until she found the list of addresses, and irritated at her forgetfulness.

“It’s merely a house.” Sherlock shrugs, eyes falling to her soup, idly scooping up the vegetables in there. Mrs Hatano shifts closer, but Sherlock’s not paying attention to her expression, doesn’t need to when the woman lets so much seep into her voice – the confusion, the underlining worry, the unwavering support.

“Well 221b might not be as big as the Redwood but it’s definitely a house.” And the offence, because she doesn’t understand. Or maybe because she wants to hear it. Or maybe because she’s not sure Sherlock actually thinks it, isn’t sure Sherlock would outright say –

“But this is home.” And Sherlock would repeat it time and again because there’s no other way to explain the serenity she feels, the comfort this space offers, the freedom to be herself, the support she has even as they interrupt her experiments because _that’s too dangerous, Sherlock_ or _the storeroom still reeks of chamomile and peppers, Sherlock_.

No other way to explain the love she’s found here.

So she will repeat it. Mrs Hatano at least understands from only one utterance, and her excited gasp is the only warning Sherlock gets before Mrs Hatano’s moving to hug her.

———————

(“Is Mrs Hatano singing?” Wato asks from the garden steps, leaning back so she can see where their landlady is, presumably, singing. Sherlock looks up and blinks once – twice – thrice – quick movements to jump start her brain because –

That pose, the way the light’s falling onto Wato, illuminating her hair, bringing out the golden details on her shirt, while the shadows lick at her thighs, mark her jeans a shade darker and contrast nicely with the gravel, dancing close to the same shade as the surrounding greenery –

Nothing short of a painting. Sherlock’s palm itches, her fingers tighten around her pen, and Sherlock’s struck with the urge to paint it – to preserve it beyond a mere memory, to immortalise this moment, this facet of Wato.

But perhaps another time, when she has the necessary paints or the right canvas; when the thought of asking Wato to pose for her doesn’t take her mind down unsavoury paths, doesn’t make her uncomfortably warm in her shirt, doesn’t leave her fingers twitching and her pen unsteady on the sketch.

“The woman delights in the strangest things,” is what Sherlock offers, focused on the sketch – it started as a series of plants, purely to flex her muscles. But then Wato came home and the flowers morphed into a portrait and – And Sherlock’s not really sorry at all.

“Oh?”

Sherlock ponders her answer for all of half a second before she says, “I may have compared 221b to the definition of a home.”

And the second _Oh_ , the delay between the first and second, the lilt of Wato’s voice as she forms the syllable, speak more of her expression, paint the picture of her smile, sketch the way she lowers her head, colour the bashfulness than any number of minutes – any number of eternities – Sherlock would spend looking at her.

Still her eyes stray, and Sherlock cannot blame them, cannot even hide it under the guise of taking reference for her sketch.)

———————

“Wato, these won’t come off if you don’t let go,” Sherlock admonishes kindly, tugs on what little of the sleeve’s peeking between Wato’s tight grasp. It just slaps back onto shaking fingers with a wet sound, and Sherlock frowns for the umpteenth time after they fished Wato out of the river – after she got _tackled_ into the river, because she pushed Sherlock out of the way instead of protecting herself.

 _Don’t_ , Wato had said, patching the word together through teeth clatter and if not for her look, steady where the rest of her is drenched, steady where the rest of her is freezing because of this _asshole_ – well, Sherlock has very colourful ways to describe the very painful sensations their suspect would’ve experienced. But she stuffs them away, and drops him into the mud. Steps over him to get another coat around Wato.

Wato had taken her hand then, after the coat was wrapped tightly around her, practically clung to Sherlock’s fingers and Sherlock rubbed and rubbed until the twitching slowed. Until the ice abated. Until Wato could mumble a _thank you_ without her jaw locking up.

She clings to Sherlock’s hand now as well, fingers shaking but less pale, less blue than by the river. Yet her eyes are unsteady, dancing from spot to spot and Sherlock carefully eases her fingers beneath Wato’s, rubs against the inside of her wrist as the other unhooks her fingers from wet cloth.

“Would you rather some privacy?” Sherlock asks, brows pinching close. Wato’s eyes snap to her, her fingers tighten against Sherlock’s minutely before the shakes come again, and Sherlock nods.

Steps closer to help her out of her wet shirt, steadies her as they tug her jeans down, rubs along her back as Wato handles her undergarments and keeps a firm grip on her arms as Wato slips into the tub – water already warmed at the optimal temperature, Sherlock’s checked thrice.

Mrs Hatano knocking catches Sherlock as she’s trying to get her turtleneck off, and though it’s muffled, Sherlock can hear Wato’s laughter as she struggles to get it off all the way through _and_ reach the door. Sherlock’s sure she knocked over their shampoos.

No sooner does she open the door, finally free of the turtleneck, does Mrs Hatano dump a bundle of things into her arms – extra towels, fresh clothes – is that a blanket???

“A heating pad?” Sherlock asks, brows lost in her bangs.

“It has saved me more times than you’ve solved cases.” And Mrs Hatano tops off her reasoning with a solemn nod, arms crossed and standing her ground. Though the longer they stand there, the more her eyes are sneaking glances around Sherlock’s side, worry tugging at the edges, and Sherlock’s lips twitch.

“Thank you,” she says, seriously, and inclines her head.

“Oh.” Sherlock pauses. “Your brother called. Mentioned a dock has rotten away. Near a lake, I think.”

A dock? Near a lake? Why on earth would he call her about a rotting dock at 4 in the afternoon – surely it’s not a polite way of asking about Wato, because he’s had more blunt analogies – oh. Oh, the summer house. Sherlock clicks her tongue, cursing herself for forgetting about that. Well even if Wato was inclined to take a dip, Sherlock doubts she’ll be so excited about it after today.

They could always lounge on the bank.

She sends off Mrs Hatano with another _thank you_ , sets the bundle of clothes close to the tub, and proceeds to finish undressing at record speed – and knocks off the conditioner this time. Wato slides forward with less twitching, and she’s warmer as she leans against Sherlock, but her muscles still flinch beneath Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock rubs along her shoulders and works her way down until Wato’s shaking is nothing more than an odd shiver.

———————

“What colourful alleged masterpiece of a cartoon are we watching tonight?”

Wato pinches her arm weakly, grumbles _“Tarzan is a masterpiece”_ into Sherlock’s shoulder with such irritation Sherlock can’t help but wrap her arm around the burrito that has become her girlfriend and laugh against her hair.

“My apologies,” Sherlock amends and snickers at Wato’s _“You better mean that.”_

Wato manages 2/3rds of the movie before falling asleep, mushing her face into Sherlock’s neck and pulling the blanket – the one solely meant for _her_ but she insisted halfway through the movie that Sherlock shouldn’t get cold – despite Sherlock having her own blanket – and leaves Sherlock to finish the movie all by her lonesome. She could stop it, but now she’s _invested_ , and it feels a bit like cheating to skip to the end.

So she shifts her pillows, makes sure Wato’s bundled properly, and unpauses the playback. Her hand slides beneath Wato’s, tightens around her wrist, and though Sherlock’s paying attention to the movie, most of her is paying close attention to Wato’s breathing, to the odd shiver twitching her fingers, tugging her shoulders.

———————

(Mrs Hatano greets them with freshly-made soup in the morning, and doesn’t budge until _both_ of them are eating it.)

———————

The case prolongs with the simple fact that their suspect – the one who tackled Wato into the river – isn’t a suspect at all. Prolongs with enough twists and false leads it builds a sharp pressure at the back of Sherlock’s eyes, has her eat half a package of chocolates before Wato steals them away and gives her honeyed tea.

Ends with Sherlock using herself as bait – because all signs point to the killer wanting her attention, clues left in such a way only Sherlock’s unorthodox thinking would connected them. Because all signs point to an ego, to a narcissistic complex. And Sherlock was sure, sure with 99.8% precision, the killer didn’t want her dead.

No, he wants to gloat, to gloat to the one person who caught his idol, the original to his caricature of a copycat – so twisted from the original Sherlock doesn’t piece it together until he describes a scene so painfully familiar Sherlock feels _sick_ , wants to puke, wishes she was anywhere but there, stalling so the police can arrive.

It ends with a cackle of _Poor little Shelly_ and Sherlock damn near _snaps._

(It ends with him pointing a gun at her, raving about finishing the job, of making her watch as he finishes the other survivor – and Sherlock’s palming the knife in her pocket, calculating how quickly she’ll have to move to close the distance. Ends with a gunshot flying wide. Ends with a bullet in his arm. Ends with the inspector demanding he give up and come quietly.)

Ends with so much noise Sherlock’s head spins.

(Ends with Wato looking her over, making sure she’s all right, grumbling about how reckless she was, pondering why Sherlock has to be so reckless. Ends with Wato shaking her head. End with her taking out her French guide and whispering the first word she finds – _la tarte_ – and Sherlock snorts _._ )

Ends with Sherlock thinking of the summer house, of a spacious house next to a serene lake, of cuddling near the fireplace, of taking a break and just _being_ with Wato. Thinks about their anniversary, whines at the fact it’s one week away.

Decides _fuck it_. Decides, with Wato pressed to her front, with her lips peppering Wato’s neck until the woman stirs – “We’re going on a vacation.”

And Wato surprisingly mumbles _All right_ and seemingly goes back to sleep – just leaves Sherlock stunned and staring dumbly.

Then Wato bolts upright and hisses, “Wait, vacation???”

And Sherlock laughs into her pillow for a good minute.

———————

“Tomorrow?!”

“Yes,” Sherlock snickers, arms wrapped around bent knees and her chin resting on the pillow on top, watching as Wato paces their room. In nothing but an oversized shirt Sherlock’s pretty sure was supposed to be a dress but got mended. Wato stops close to the window and the moonlight both makes her look more beautiful and highlights just how messy her hair is.

“Sherlock, it’s not funny. We have to pack,” Wato repeats for the third time in 20 minutes. “Do you even have a destination in mind? Do we need to book tickets? Reserve rooms?”

“It’s all taken care of.”

Wato stops her fourth attempt at making a list things they need to pack, stops right at the middle of their room and drops her hands onto the bedpost. “What?”

“I handled it.”

Wato squints at her, and what little Sherlock can see is oozing suspicion and concern so blatantly Sherlock tosses one of the smaller pillows at the woman. She misses. Knows that she misses, but still Wato points it out, “You missed.”

And Sherlock leans closer to the edge of their bed so the moonlight falls over her face, displays her most dramatic hurt expression in full force. And it is 100% just to lure Wato back to bed. To lure her close enough to tug her down; trap her in blankets so she doesn’t even think about getting up to pack.

Sure, Wato huffs, squints her eyes suspiciously at Sherlock but Sherlock merely smiles and distracts her with a kiss. Prolongs it until she steals the question off her tongue, until she feels Wato’s hand slide along her jaw, until a thumb rubs along her cheek.

Until Wato relaxes and breathes out a half-hearted, “You had to throw one of my pillows.”

———————

“Sherlock,” Wato mumbles into her hair as Sherlock settles, and Sherlock hums against Wato’s neck in question, already half-drunk from the combination of _Wato_ and sleep. “When did you settle everything for a vacation?”

There isn’t any question whether Wato feels the smirk curling Sherlock’s lips, not with how she tightens the arm around Sherlock’s waist, not with how her breath hitches.

“I have my ways,” is all Sherlock says, and she has to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing at Wato’s mumbled _Now I’m really worried_.

“What about food, miss ‘I have my ways’?”

“Irene’s bringing something in the morning,” Sherlock says as her mind wanders to the text Irene had sent her earlier that day – _You plan on eating something other than Wato???? Shooketh._

There’s a pause, long enough for Sherlock to think Wato’s fallen asleep, long enough for her to start slipping under, but then –

“If she brings lingerie again, you’re the one wearing it.”

Sherlock nearly chokes with laughter (and maybe – definitely – at the memory of the last pair of lingerie Irene brought them, allegedly as a joke. Sherlock wouldn’t mind wearing them if it’ll be a repeat of last time. Just the thought of it has a shiver running along her arm, and she hides it in tightening her hold along Wato’s back.)

(Then Wato drags her fingers through Sherlock’s hair with a murmur, and Sherlock can’t hide the shiver.)

———————

“Please respect the speed limit,” Kento says, holding out the keys all the same, moustache tugged low in a silent plea yet his brow twitching in resignation, already suspecting her answer. So Sherlock doesn’t give him one. Maybe just an innocent smile, and snatches the keys to finish packing their bags.

“The stuff’s in the attic, by the way.” Sherlock stops, not even a full step away from Kento, close enough for his words to be for her and no one else. Close enough that should Sherlock turn around, she’d have a detailed view of Kento’s concern – always concerned when the past is concerned ( _hah._ ) When their family’s brought up. Especially after Sherlock stopped being a fugitive.

What a busybody.

(She loves him for it.)

(She might actually voice that one day. Her eyes wander to the window, to Wato still going over their things, and her ears ring with _maybe you’ll tell her one day too._ )

_(What a terrifying thought.)_

“And Irene did clear out the spiders nicely.” He folds his arms behind his back, clasps his hands low, and is ready to leave. But Sherlock stops him before he can pass her, raises her hand in a simple high-five. Stares curiously at his surprised look. Flicks her fingers until he returns it.

“No promises,” Sherlock says, and turns toward the car, avoiding his resigned sigh. But not without sneaking a peek at that window. Not before catching a hint of Wato skipping by with too many shawls, definitely covering something.

———————

“You really packed your laptop.”

“Yours.” Sherlock spares her a glance, just enough to take in the light wrinkle between Wato’s brow. Eyes on the road, Sherlock motions for Wato to flip the laptop over, to where there’s a sticker of cat paws Wato thinks Sherlock doesn’t know about.

“You said only pack essentials,” Wato points out.

“Yes.”

“Then why this?”

Sherlock ponders the answer – ponders which of the two to offer – honesty or teasing – honesty – teasing – honesty – teasing – one – two – one – two –

She takes a right, and flips the imaginary coin. Leaves the motorway for a side road, and tosses the metaphorical coin out the window. Because that’s not how trust works. Because she’s not falling on old routines again. Because Wato deserves better.

“Because your movies are on it.” Sherlock stops at a red light. Uses the opportunity to bask in Wato’s expression, in the curious mix of surprise and bashfulness. Follows the way her hair falls over her shoulders – out of its ponytail, not even pulled back by a clip. Lets the words sit with Wato, lets them sink in, lets the light turn yellow then green before she adds, “And I’m not a barbarian.”

She takes a left to the sound of Wato’s half-choked laughter.

“Are you going to waste that battery and play your music, or not?” Sherlock asks once the laughter simmers down, two blocks later.

“As if you don’t like it.”

“I don’t.”

Wato hums dubious, eyes fixed on the laptop, presumably looking for the right track. “I’ve seen you shimmy.”

“I do _not –_ ”

Music cuts off the rest of Sherlock’s sentence, forces her to channel all of her wounded pride into a glare. All the while Wato’s got a far too pleased smile on her face, foot lightly tapping to the cheery tune. A tune Sherlock stubbornly ignores.

———————

Three intersections later Sherlock catches herself nodding her head along. Her eyes shift to Wato, and the look on her face is of a person just waiting to say _I told you so_. (The light is red.)

Wato taps along the laptop case. Sherlock raises her finger.

Wato raises her chin, head tilted closer to Sherlock. Sherlock counters with her own, leaning forward.

Sherlock raises her brows in warning. Wato quirks a single brow in challenge, grin somehow bigger, somehow more pleased and Sherlock doesn’t think she can win this one.

No, there’s a 0.002% possibility of winning this and exactly 0 scenarios of winning with her pride intact. And each and every one of those scenarios ends with that obnoxious (adorable) fist-raise and a whispered _yes_.

“It’s an acceptable song,” Sherlock tries, but Wato’s hum is dripping with disbelief. Luckily the light turns green and Sherlock can pretend she’s not avoiding Wato’s knowing gaze because _she’s watching the road, Wato._

“It reminds me of you,” is all Wato says, clear over the music – which is quieter, now that Sherlock thinks about it – and it’s the only warning Sherlock gets as Wato puts her hand on the crook of Sherlock’s elbow. Squeezes once before retreating.

And suddenly it’s Sherlock’s favourite song.

———————

“We’re taking a break,” Wato says for the third time in the past hour. Insists this time around. Doesn’t skirt her tone about. Stops the music with a final _clip_ of the laptop closing, eyes piercing Sherlock so much her shoulder twitches with the intensity.

“At the next rest stop.”

“You just passed one,” Wato observes, and her words drag off as realisation hits her, and Sherlock’s not at all sorry for skipping this rest spot. It wasn’t good enough. Not up to standards.

“They all look the same,” Wato points out, evenly.

They do not. Besides Sherlock’s fine.

“You’ve been driving for three hours straight, Sherlock. You’re not fine.”

Nonsense, she’s gone on longer trips before –

“Did you stuff chocolates into the radio case?” Sherlock’s hand freezes, half the chocolate piece already in her mouth, the rest practically melting at Wato’s incredulous look. “Is that why we don’t use the radio? No, of course it is.”

Sherlock grimaces at Wato’s heavy sigh, and offers the remainder of the chocolate. As a peace offering.

“The next stop’s close by,” Sherlock adds. Statistically speaking it is close by, they’re located equidistantly along the road and they’re well away from the last one to at least be half way to the next one. Sherlock dares to look to the side long enough to catch Wato’s eyes, long enough to offer a lopsided smile, long enough to say _Promise._

With a huff, Wato takes half the offered chocolate. Nudges the rest back to Sherlock with a muffled, “Keep your sugar up.”

———————

(They spend more time than necessary at the rest stop, objectively speaking.

But Wato sits close by as they eat, literally steals Sherlock’s hand as soon as they finish their meal – and it’s partially to keep Sherlock from immediately returning to the car, she’s sure – and Sherlock can’t say she minds all that much.

Not when she can focus on Wato’s hand, when she can dance her fingers along Wato’s palm, slip them over Wato’s knuckles, slide them between Wato’s. Not when she can tug their joint hands closer to graze her lips against Wato’s knuckles just to hear Wato’s sharp inhale.

Not when Wato retaliates with a light peck on the cheek, quick enough to be teasing, yet lingering enough to feel like a pressure against her heart.)

———————

“I’m still surprised you can drive.”

“Why would I waste my energy getting frustrated in Tokyo’s traffic when there are more productive things to spend it on?” Sherlock turns around on the path, extends her arms as if she’s explaining the most obvious thing, and waits for Wato’s small head-tilt before turning back to the house.

The groundskeeper, despite his name, doesn’t keep his house well. The old building looks even older than the climate and seasonal changes warrant, and a part of Sherlock worries about the state of the summer house. They didn’t drive all morning, ate a proper lunch at a dubious restaurant, just to stay in a house from the past century.

It takes five quick rings for Wato to tug her arm back, to click her tongue and mutter something under her breath. There’s a creak on the other side of the door, and Sherlock spares it a moment longer – just enough to categorise the sound as a footstep – before she nudges Wato forward. Her free hand goes to the small box in her pocket, deformed from the drive, but its contents intact, while Wato greets a confused groundskeeper with a smile.

Then his eyes land on Sherlock, recognition flaring and he gripes out, “The little devil. You’re early.”

“We’re a month late, actually.” Sherlock offers him a grin, and predictably his frown deepens, so she steps forward, casts a cursory look inside as she adds, “The keys, thanks.”

Wato shifts next to her, clears her throat pointedly, and amends in her kindest voice, “We’ve had a long drive and we really don’t want to indispose you any further.”

The groundskeeper grumbles but lets them inside, tells them to mind the low lamps just as Wato tugs Sherlock away from a tacky orange one. So enraptured is he in Wato’s small talk, or maybe in the search for the keys, that it’s easy for Sherlock to slip the little box of incense out of her pocket and leave it on the nearest flowery armchair. The contrast is jarring enough.

Just to be sure he doesn’t link it to her, Sherlock moves to the other side of the room, grabs at the first interesting thing – a coyote figurine, poised to pounce – on the windowsill. Twirls it in her hand, eyes lingering on the garden. Lingering on the lone stone tablet by a blooming tree.

( _“They say spring is a rough time for him.”_ )

( _“He seemed lost. Always turning to his left like he was looking for someone.”_ )

(The pictures are still there. The two cups of tea. Enough cakes to feed two people.)

She lingers until Wato snatches the figurine and puts it back, spares Sherlock a disapproving look before she slips her hand into Sherlock’s and pulls her along.

———————

The summer house looks better than Sherlock expected, and she actually has to admit the groundskeeper might know what he’s doing. Not that she’s going to voice it of course. Not that she even gets the chance – the man merely shows them what road to take, tells them the access code for the main gate ( _“Changed quarterly, as per your pare – instructions,”_ he amends at Sherlock’s sharp look) and leaves them with a suggestion of a nod.

All the better, Sherlock thinks. They came here for privacy, not an old man’s prolonged tour of a house Sherlock remembers. Somewhat. Enough to orient herself. (Enough to know what to hide, to stash away so the rest doesn’t follow to the surface.)

“It’s so spacious,” Wato breathes out, glancing around the living room, practically running toward the oval windowsill, covered in deep red cushions, vibrant as either recently washed or recently replaced things are. Wato leans on them, lost in the view of the backyard, but Sherlock marvels at the afternoon light, spilling from the excessively tall windows. How it makes Wato glow, glides over like a cape, like it’s tailored for her specifically and it leaves Sherlock breathless.

Wato’s gasp snaps her out of it, and Sherlock blinks down at the grey blob by the window, blinks through Wato’s coos until the blob solidifies into a small squirrel, curiously sniffing at where Wato’s fingers touch the glass.

“ _Sciurus lis_ ,” Sherlock points out, leaning forward to get a better look at him. “Either young or – no, not young – _small_ for his age. Far from your trees, aren’t you?”

“Maybe he’s here to welcome us.”

Sherlock snorts, then quickly hides the sound behind the back of her hand. “More likely he’s here to steal some nuts then hide back into his trees like a little thief.”

“Must you always be so bleak?” Wato clicks her tongue, fingers still pressed to the glass but eyes straying to Sherlock. Sherlock gives her a shrug. When Wato looks back to the window, the squirrel’s already skittering along the yard, running back to the tree line.

There are four more grey blobs at the edge of the tree line, and Sherlock quickly taps Wato’s shoulder, cuts them off as they were sagging, and points to the grey blobs. And the way Wato’s voice goes soft, the underlining giggle, the almost-coo in the words _It’s his family_ plants itself in a special part of Sherlock’s heart, folds itself neatly into the category of _Adorable Wato Things_.

It’s an ever growing category, and it still catches Sherlock off guard sometimes. Not that she’s complaining. Quite the opposite.

———————

They take the master bedroom because Sherlock’s not an amateur to accept anything but the best. The room has been scarcely used, even when they had visited the house, but it was always kept spotless. And Irene had checked the mattress twice – _“Like sleeping on a bundle of clouds, Sherlock. Trust me on this.”_

Honestly that should’ve been her first clue to the scene they find. The bed, right in the middle of the spacious room, in such a way you can’t possibly avoid it unless you’re blindfolded, and even then you’d land on it and go _Oh so soft_ because the sheets look ridiculously soft. Feel ridiculously soft under Sherlock’s hand.

So they have a ridiculously soft bed in the middle of a large room, covered in rose petals. _Dried_ rose petals. Scrunched up, so fragile they break at the slightest pressure, left at least a week ago. Maybe more. Maybe –

_Irene._

Sherlock has never facepalmed harder in her life, especially with keychains. Even Wato winces as she pokes the sore area, testing for any serious damage; makes an apologetic sound at Sherlock’s flinches.

“We’re getting you some ice.” Wato nods to herself and drags Sherlock out of the room. Reaches the stairs before she realizes she doesn’t, in fact, know where the kitchen is, and turns back to Sherlock.

“Downstairs to the left, then a right,” Sherlock guides rather than taking point. And it has nothing to do with wanting Wato to lead her, not at all so she can just watch Wato in this space and marvel how well it all fits. To marvel how she makes this place warm despite it being 85% empty.

———————

(“We found your roses,” Sherlock says while a glass filled with ice is pressed to her forehead, a good 10 minutes later because the kitchen didn’t have any ice.

_“Roses? What roses?”_

“On the bed.”

 _“On the – Oh.”_ Sherlock has to move the phone away from her ear with the force of Irene’s laughter. Even Wato turns away from filling the fridge to cast a curious glance at it.

“Are you done?”

 _“Oh God, I forgot about that,”_ Irene wheezes on the other end, words crisscrossed with leftover giggles, and Sherlock’s pondering how rude would Wato think it is to simply hang up right now. Wato raises her brows at Sherlock’s look, as if reading her mind. Not even Sherlock’s pout sways her, though Wato does turn back to the fridge extremely quickly.

_“How bad was it?”_

“Like having dried plums all over your bed,” Sherlock deadpans.

_“Well if someone had told me they were going to be a month late –”_

“You didn’t ask.”

 _“So not the point. I was trying to be a good wingman –”_ Sherlock scoffs, and a bit of the ice water sloshes over her bangs with the movement. _“And provide you with the most romantic setting before you jump each other.”_

Okay, now surely it wouldn’t be rude to hang up. Even if it is, Sherlock can blame it on a headache.)

———————

It’s a clear night. Cloudless. Not too cold for spring, just enough that they can get away with sweaters and leave their coats inside. Maybe wrap a dark blue scarf over Wato just to be sure. And rearrange it so the white flowers are positioned right below Wato’s chin.

(Sherlock doesn’t take a scarf. The kiss Wato presses into her cheek warms her more than enough.)

Sherlock leads her to the back part of the house, closer to the lake, closer to what remains of the small dock. The groundskeeper assured Kento it’s still sturdy, but Sherlock still leads Wato farther to the right – closer to the trees should they need cover (though the forecast hasn’t changed in the three seconds it’s been since Sherlock last checked) but still far enough that they can see the sky clearly.

“We’re not looking for mushrooms, right?” Sherlock turns away from inspecting the yard, flashes her phone light at Wato on instinct before pointing it to her feet so she doesn’t blind her girlfriend – and, oh, that spot would be perfect, the grass looks soft enough and –

Oh, okay. So it does seem like she’s looking for mushrooms.

“No.” Is the only thing Sherlock says before she yanks Wato down and lies next to her. Wato mumbles something next to her, a question abandoned to a yelp once the light from Sherlock’s phone hits her face. Sherlock quickly switches it off, offers a quiet _Sorry_ , but Wato taps her arm, and Sherlock can just make out her blinking the spots out of her eyes.

“What’re we – oh.” And Sherlock doesn’t have to see to know the wonder on Wato’s face, can hear it clearly in Wato’s voice; can pick up the curl of her lips, is close enough for the small beginnings of laughter to reach her.

And it’s infectious. Sherlock feels it in the way her cheeks hurt, in how her hand searches for Wato’s. In how she can’t wait for Wato to ask, how she just dives into the constellations, barely finishes listing all the starts in one before delving into stories surrounding them.

If she casually skips the Little Dipper, just darts her fingers to the constellation to its left, Wato doesn’t say anything. Merely shifts closer to Sherlock, squeezes her hand in between stories.

———————

Sherlock starts when she wakes to a foreign ceiling, a foreign room, to too soft sheets beneath her fingers. And her mind goes into overdrive – her eyes snap from one end of the room to the other, her fingers dig in, try to find purchase, an anchor something – not slipping, not falling, not again not –

Something shifts beneath Sherlock’s fingers and she just _stops._ Locks up. Waits for the shifting to stop. Waits as the sound of someone sleeping next to her comes into focus. Focuses intensely on where something is pressed against her neck – soft and shifting and tickling – a nose, it’s a nose – and the warmth against her chest, steady against her heartbeat, following her breathing –

Breathing – breathing – _breathe Sherlock –_ inhale – exhale – inhale –

A sleepy mumble breaks through. The nose drags against her neck, and something – someone, the nose, the warmth against her chest – a hand – linked to an arm, linked to a person – a person sleeping next to her – pressing against her hand, her arm – something curling along her waist – a back and an arm and –

_Wato._

Morning. Morning in bed. Bed in a house – not 221b but – the summer house. The summer house. A vacation. With Wato. Wato curled into her side. Wato mumbling in her sleep. Wato clinging to her waist. Wato – _Wato, I –_

Sherlock breathes out, throat dry. Closes her eyes and counts – _one two three four five six seven eight_ – opens them and Wato’s still there. Still sturdy beneath her fingers. Still mumbling into her neck, mumbling –

Humming. Wato’s _humming_. Yes, there’s a rhythm to her mumbles, a tune that tickles Sherlock’s ears, tugs on a memory – a morning, a cello beneath her hands, Wato setting the table for breakfast, a peace, a tune, a melody –

A bashful smile, a night spent recreating the tune, a morning – then several – spent practicing – a hand on her shoulder, sweetened coffee – the taste of chocolate, the – a pressure against her cheek –

Lips against her neck, pressure too firm for it to be absentminded, to be anything but deliberate. A melody too familiar to be a figment of a dream. Fingers along her side too orderly to be guided by sleep.

Sherlock presses her hand against Wato’s, presses them both firmer against her heart until it calms. Until an index finger hooks around hers. Until the humming reverberates in her chest. Until she picks out the words _I’ve got you_ in between the melody.

Until she feels she’s here and not falling again.

———————

Sherlock’s already 2/3rds done with tuning the positively antique cello when Wato comes down, well into the morning. Far later than the usual routine back home. _She needs the rest_ , Sherlock had thought after she carefully extricated herself from Wato’s grasp, after she left a note on the nightstand that reads _Come downstairs._

Even with the leeway, Sherlock had expected Wato to wake up at her usual time. Had planned for it, actually, timed her two attempts at breakfast to the millisecond. But Wato had slept in. And Sherlock got bored. Got antsy really. Had to make due with not Wato-made coffee and even then she needed to occupy her time.

So she found the old cello, out of tune and in severe need of a polish; managed to salvage some of the bows and tossed the other four in the trash.

And so Wato finds her, and the sharp broken sound Sherlock tugs out of the cello has nothing to do with how out of tune the instrument is. Has absolutely everything to do with seeing a sleep-dazed Wato coming down the stairs in that _golden robe_. Her golden robe; Wato’s – it can only be Wato’s after that night, after that sight, after the – the way she –

“You packed it,” Sherlock croaks and prays Wato’s too sleepy to realise. And she might be for she squints adorably at Sherlock, then looks down, takes a good long minute to look, before her cheeks heat up and she exhales an _oh._

———————

Mercifully Wato changes after breakfast – which wasn’t a total wreck given Wato’s enthusiasm – and they spend the majority of the day just lounging in the living room. Wato actually lounging by the oval window, spread out like a cat in sunlight, simply basking in it, yet fully concentrated on her notebook.

And Sherlock has to bite her lip at the hint of Wato’s tongue peeking out every odd moment; has to calm her heart when Wato scrunches her face like a dork, has to steady her breathing when she combs her hair back and it falls in messy waves around her face. Catches herself just before the bow slips against cello strings, masks the hiccup as a dip in the melody.

After the 18th hiccup, Sherlock leaves the cello by the stairs, heads to the makeshift library below the stairs (ignores the twitching beneath her fingers, the urge to organise the selves properly) and comes back with a book. Pats Wato on the shoulder so she can easily slip behind her, so she can easily drop the book in Wato’s lap. So she can easily wrap her arm around Wato’s waist and tug her back until they’re melded against each other.

So Sherlock can whisper, _“Read to me?”_ and press a pout into Wato’s shoulder. Until she can feel Wato’s chuckle against her chest, feel the headshake against her cheek. Feel a warmth completely unrelated to the sunlight. Feel every word like Wato’s pressing them into her heart.

———————

(And maybe as the story progresses, as the romance turns to cliché, Sherlock distracts Wato with her lips. Skirts them along Wato’s ear, peppers her neck with whisper-like touches. Slides her hand higher along her side, only to slip it back down, securely around Wato’s waist.

Just to hear the hitch in Wato’s breathing. Just to feel her sharp inhale. Just to flinch at the pinch on her thigh.

Teases her until Wato lowers the book, runs her fingers along Sherlock’s jaw and claims her lips furiously, steals her snicker and leaves her chasing words, thoughts, everything. Leaves her clinging to Wato just to stay upright.

Leaves her dazed, barely hearing the admonishment – “So distracting.”)

———————

She couldn’t tell you what started it. Whether it was the look during dinner. The lingering touch along her arm as Sherlock took care of the dishes. The way she mentioned taking a bath – the unspoken _invitation_. Or maybe it was the smile, the curl of Wato’s lips, just skirting the edge of a smirk.

Or maybe it was all of it, and – the memory of the golden robe, the tingling in her lips, the thrill of distracting Wato from reading – _all of it._

It takes her no time at all to reach the bathroom, to slide into the adjourning room with the large tub – ridiculously extravagant, surprisingly well kept – and Wato doesn’t even look. Doesn’t even pause in her routine. Studiously ignores Sherlock until she can’t. Until Sherlock comes close enough to see her lack of attention isn’t so much to ignore Sherlock as to keep herself in check, to bury her anticipation beneath the surface. For when Sherlock comes close, leans on the back of the tub, chin barely touches Wato’s shoulder, she’s pulled down into a kiss so wanting, dripping with such need Sherlock can’t stop her groan.

It’s only when Wato leans back with a final tug on Sherlock’s lower lip that Sherlock realises where Wato’s other hand is beneath the surface, and her fingers tighten uncomfortably on the tub’s edge.

“Sherlock,” Wato breathes out, and it spurs Sherlock on, has her shifting Wato so she can slide behind her somehow without slipping. Has her sliding an arm around Wato’s front, hand moving upward along her stomach. Has her chasing Wato’s hand down below, fingers dragging along her skin, easing over her wrist, sneaking beneath her palm as her lips press into the back of Wato’s neck.

 _“Sherlock_. _”_

“So impatient,” Sherlock breathes against Wato’s neck, close to her jaw, close enough for Wato to feel the minute details of her hiss as fingers dig into her thigh.

“Someone had to rile me up earlier.” And Wato flicks water against Sherlock’s face, distracts her enough to miss Wato’s fingers until they slide into her hair, scratch at her scalp, and pull her closer, guide her to Wato’s lips. And Sherlock stills her fingers at the feeling of Wato’s tongue, momentarily forgets where she is.

Then Wato shifts against her, lowers her fingers to urge Sherlock’s wrist, and it all floods back, hits her like eating too much chocolate and suddenly Sherlock needs Wato closer, twists her thigh around Wato’s, presses her hand firmly against her chest. Breaks their kiss only to plunge her fingers mercilessly, to have a moan breathed over her lips, to see Wato dig her teeth in to stop another one and no – _that won’t do at all._

She wants to hear her, hear her name whispered, moaned, echo around them, taste the moans on Wato’s tongue as she falls apart around her fingers, as her heart beats against her hand, as fingers drag through her hair, as she shifts against Sherlock – as the friction drives her _mad,_ leaves her burning up inside.

Has her damn near falling apart after Wato.

Not that Wato leaves her on the edge for long, not with those steady, _devilish_ fingers, or that smile, or those lips – _Lord,_ those lips.

———————

“I actually did want a bath, though,” Wato mumbles against Sherlock’s shoulder, sounding half-asleep. Sherlock drags her eyes away from where Wato’s running their intertwined fingers against the surface, and snorts into Wato’s hair.

“Let me guess, I distracted you?”

“You, make a guess?”

 _She has a point_ , but Sherlock pokes her side anyway, tickles her some more just to get the beginning of a laugh, just to feel her side twitch beneath Sherlock’s fingers before Wato slaps her hand away. Just to twist her hand so she’s holding Wato’s instead, just to hear the soft sigh, borderline sleepy.

“You can’t fall asleep in the tub,” Sherlock points out. Clicks her tongue near Wato’s ear to cut off her grumble, and it earns her an upside-down pout instead, makes her fall a little bit more in love with Wato Tachibana.

“How about reading by the fireplace?” Sherlock offers, raises her brows and puts on her cutes face, as if she needs to with the way Wato’s eyes shine in the low light.

“Only if you read to me.” And Wato punctuates with a tap against Sherlock’s free shoulder, equally hitting her with her own fingers, expression determined. Sleepy determined. Adorably sleepy determined.

And Sherlock lets the sight wash over her for a moment longer, before she whispers, “That can be arranged.”

———————

(Sherlock barely gets through the second sonnet – yes she’s picked poetry, it was utterly accidental – she had no idea that book would be closest to the fireplace, or the exact shade of green even when covered by a layer of dust – when light snores tickle her neck.

Sherlock shifts against the bundle of pillows (snatched from the living room couches and armchairs), fixes the blanket so it’s covering Wato properly, presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. Falters at something being pressed into her neck but she can’t make it out, dragged out too much, possibly abandoned half way. Sleepy nonsense, probably.

Yet it lingers with each sonnet Sherlock reads, sparks something in her chest she furiously crushes, because surely, _surely it’s not that._ Surely not those words. Surely it’s wishful thinking.)

———————

(Sherlock wakes to an emptiness at her side, buried under more blankets than when she fell asleep, book peeking from atop the table, fireplace burned out and the smell of breakfast filling the air.

Sherlock buries her nose in a pillow, breathes in deep at the familiar scent, and smiles.)

———————

Here is the thing Sherlock doesn’t want to interrupt Wato’s semi-regular exercises. She got an elbow to the head once and that was one time too many – never mind that she could’ve avoided it had her mind not gone utterly _blank_ at seeing Wato in her exercise clothes, had she not followed her moves like one listens to music, had she not been absolutely lost in Wato exercising –

Anyway, she doesn’t want to interrupt, but the music just doesn’t sound right, the notes are lacking something – too low or too stiff or – it’s not good enough – doesn’t sound right, she can’t give her something _subpar_ , it would be an insult and the last thing Sherlock wants is to insult her, to give her something unworthy – _failure failure failure_ –

So truly she doesn’t want to interrupt but the alternative is breaking this bow and tossing the cello out into the rain and just tearing through their supply of chocolate. Or going to the attic but that’s _worse._ Definitely, undoubtedly, backed up with empirical evidence, worse.

It’s fine if she knocks, right?

Except with the music volume being so high, Wato’s not likely to hear Sherlock even if she knocks. Which she doesn’t. Raises her hand to, but it never reaches the wood – well, no that’s a lie, it does. Reaches the wooden doorframe to steady Sherlock because Wato is most definitely _not_ exercising her forms.

She’s dancing.

It makes sense given the choice in music, but the sight is still – indescribable. And adorable. And vulnerable, yet freeing at the same time, a mash of moves without order just – just feeling. Draws her in yet roots her in place. Has her fingers itching yet Sherlock bites her lip, keeps them on the doorframe.

Then her eyes spot where the laptop’s lying on the bed, and it’s easy for Sherlock to reach it without Wato noticing, takes her a second longer to find the song she’s looking for. Has approximately 1.4 seconds of Wato picking up the song change to catch her hands and pull her in place.

Has roughly 5 more seconds to enjoy Wato’s confused and dazed look, to enjoy the heat on Wato’s cheeks, before realisation dawns on her, before her feet move to follow the beat of the tango, before her arm slides comfortably into place, before her fingers relax in Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock gives her a minute more to get comfortable before she dips her low and Wato _laughs_.

———————

It’s during the afternoon, lounging on the balcony while rain pours beyond, Wato nose-deep in a book and Sherlock distracting herself with puzzles, that it clicks. Clicks with the melody of Wato humming an unfamiliar tune mixed with the patter of rain. Clicks with a startling clarity Sherlock can’t help but think _Of course_.

Clicks with a restlessness that has her dumping the puzzle and pen in her seat, and running for the cello with barely an off-hand wave at Wato’s curious noise.

Clicks in the precise dance of fingers against strings, the sharp drags of a bow and the pinpricks of high notes. Clicks with a drawn out tune, with the piece lingering in Sherlock’s ears despite the silence. Slots itself with an ecstatic grin.

Resounds with a _Perfect_.

———————

(Now she just needs to record it.)

———————

She shouldn’t have drank that liquor, Sherlock realises with a sharp headache. No matter how ecstatic over her musical piece, no matter how whiskey ages well, no matter how a voice at the back of her mind whispered of the boxes in the attic, she shouldn’t have opened it. Because she doesn’t remember what happened last night, doesn’t remember how she got to their bed, definitely doesn’t know why her shirt’s hanging open.

And when Wato walks in snug in that golden robe, Sherlock’s both curious and concerned. And also silently cursing the woman for wearing it deliberately, because the twitch in her brow, the glint in her eyes speaks of purpose, of a plan and Sherlock can’t figure out _why_.

Though now that she’s sitting next to Sherlock, offering her a cup of tea and medicine, Wato looks worse for wear as well, so maybe Sherlock didn’t drink alone last night. So she asks. And Wato starts ticking off her fingers:

“You told me I was a goddess sent on Earth to bless us all.” Okay, true enough. “Then you asked me whether I was single and pouted for 20 minutes when I said no.”

“But you’re my girlfriend,” Sherlock points out. Wato chuckles and pats her thigh.

“I said the same thing and you looked so surprised, like you had an epiphany. And then you started talking about being blessed.” _Also completely true._ “Then you jumped on the table, shouting what a wonderful girlfriend I was –”

Sherlock pinches her brow, pushing down a groan at how ridiculous that must’ve looked like. And wonders how she didn’t fall on her head because the kitchen table might look sturdy but it’s seen better years.

“Then you thought the lake held the western folk sword. Excali – The English one.”

Sherlock carefully lowers the half-empty cup on the floor and flops back into the bed, hoping it will swallow her whole and spare her any more embarrassing facts. At least Wato for her part finds it amusing.

“And the shirt?” Sherlock’s half afraid to hear the answer.

“You insisted on getting it off before going to bed – so it doesn’t get wrinkled or something. And then –” Wato’s snort draws Sherlock to peek from beneath her hands. The only way to describe Wato’s smile is a mix of adoring and amused. “Just passed out in it anyway.”

———————

Well since it was already wrinkled, Sherlock reasoned there’s no reason for her _not_ to wear it around the house. Unbuttoned and hanging tastefully, just enough to get the mind wandering, just enough to tease. Just enough to rile up a certain girlfriend in a golden robe.

No, Sherlock’s not getting back at her for still wearing that robe; for insinuating a lack of clothes with the way she furiously keeps it tight, keeps it snug on her figure. No, Sherlock’s not contrasting Wato’s deliberate sway in her walking with suddenly needing things from the tallest shelf, with purposefully stretching in clear view.

No she definitely doesn’t position the cello right between her breasts, right at the opening in her shirt, just because Wato’s crossing and uncrossing her legs every few minutes while shooting positively heated gazes her way. Absolutely doesn’t play something slow and sensual, doesn’t keep her eyes trained on Wato as she does, just to make the woman squirm.

(Doesn’t steer her thoughts away from imagining something else beneath her fingers, doesn’t have to steady her breathing, supress a shiver.)

Doesn’t have to bite down a whine as Wato leans on her shoulder, presses as close as possible so Sherlock can feel the outline of her chest, just to ask, whisper in a voice that shoots to Sherlock’s core, “You said pack essentials. Right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock forces out, nods her head and nearly groans as Wato’s fingers dance over her shirt collar, glide along Sherlock’s jaw like the bow glides along strings.

Breathes out, as Wato steps back but it’s cut short when Wato leans against the other shoulder, fingers curling underneath Sherlock’s chin, nudging her upward, nudging her head back. Practically purrs in Sherlock’s ear, “So a strap-on is essential, then.”

 _Oh shit._ She found it. Of course she found it, Sherlock didn’t pack it deep in her bag, barely bothered to hide it beneath her shirts – it was just a matter of time – just a matter of finding the right moment to mention it –

And the prior teasing takes on a whole new facet. And Sherlock smirks, stills her unsteady fingers along the bow, leans further back until Wato’s pressed against her shoulders, until she has to grab at Sherlock’s shoulder to steady herself, until Sherlock has to focus on her words and not the sensation, the words not –

“I could show you how essential,” Sherlock breathes out, and she can count on one hand the number of times such raw want stared back at her.

This is how it starts.

———————

It turns to Sherlock on her back, soft and cool sheets dragging against her sweating back, clinging to her as much as she’s clinging to them – them and not Wato, soft sheets, probably cotton, and definitely not Wato’s shaking back, her restless arms, definitely doesn’t steady her hips – doesn’t steady _her_ against her mouth –

 _“No touching.”_ Yet her hands linger on Sherlock’s wrists, play with the golden sash, leaves it loose should Sherlock disagree. Only tightens it after a resolute, unshaking _yes._

No touching but she is kind enough to let Sherlock use her mouth, merciful enough to let Sherlock lie down because the taste of Wato on her tongue, the way she moves coupled with the hand guiding against her head, multiplied with the noises she’s making, to the power of the gold shining against her when Sherlock looks up – it would send Sherlock to the floor.

And then it’s all gone. Gone with a groan reverberating in Sherlock’s chest and echoing above her. Gone with lingering fingers, sliding along Sherlock’s cheeks, dancing over her lips, teasing her as much as they’re mapping the surface. Gone with a flash of gold. Gone – gone, gone _gone_ Sherlock nearly chases it, chases Wato, nearly begs –

But then she’s sitting upright, close, so close to Wato, nose brushing hers, haggard breaths ghosting over her lips, fingers running along her neck, sliding down to the collar of her shirt and back up again so tantalisingly slow – distracting – so distracting Sherlock doesn’t realise where Wato’s other hand is.

Not until it’s pressing against Sherlock’s thigh, not until fingers tug on the harness straps, tug and tug, pull and nudge until the fingers disappear. Only to reappear as a pressure against the toy. Reappear as a sharp yank, and Sherlock’s gasp is swallowed, clever tongue delving deep.

Then Wato slides against her, takes in all of the toy – slowly, gradually, leaving Sherlock painfully aware of every twitch, every shift, until she’s found the spot, until Wato’s comfortable and the noise Sherlock makes – the shameless thrust to meet Wato – has Wato pushing down firmer, sends a thrill down Sherlock’s back and leaves her ears ringing with Wato’s moan.

Sets her off in such a pace Sherlock’s hands itch to touch, her chest hurts from trying to breathe, and the sight – the sight, the feeling, the friction, the sound – _her voice, her breathing, the weight,_ Wato’s fingers along her shoulders _–_

_Wato Wato Wato Wato_

Sherlock closes her eyes because – it’s too much. Too much.

And then it all stops and Sherlock _whines_ , nearly tears the sheets _._

“Watch me, Sara,” Wato demands, breathlessly, and Sherlock can do nothing but obey, snaps her eyes open and nearly chokes at the look on Wato’s face, at the depth of her eyes, at how dark they are. Nearly falls back as Wato starts again, but steady hands hold her in place. Press her closer if possible.

“I want you to see what you do to me, Sara.” And Sherlock feels the thrust deep in her core, feels it clog her throat, burn in her chest, simmer beneath her skin like ants, like sparks, like embers.

“See how you make me feel, Sara.” The fingers digging into her shoulder, the hand against her jaw are all that’s holding her together, keeping her floating when she wants to drown in Wato. And she would gladly drown – in her, in everything that is Wato Tachibana – _Wato_ , _Wato_.

“Wato.” Sherlock presses against Wato’s jaw, against its underside, feels Wato’s breathing hiccup beneath her lips, just like she feels the robe catch against her skin, feels Wato’s thrusts turn erratic, turn short and quick and _brutal_. “ _Wato_. Wato, please –”

“I’m close,” Wato whispers, voice cracking at the end and Sherlock’s never wanted anything more in her life like how she wants to hold Wato right now. But she can’t, the sash digs as she tugs on it and all Sherlock can do is watch, is feel. Hear _“You feel so good, Sara.”_ Taste – _“Oh, how you fill me, Sara.”_ Bask in the raw, wanting, dripping moan of _Sara_ –

Comes with Wato moaning above her, with her teeth buried in Wato’s shoulder, mind zeroed in on three words and Sherlock drowns right along with her.

———————

Sherlock soothes the bite mark with little kisses, once they’ve gathered themselves, once they’ve tumbled to the side with a giggle. Presses her lips like it’ll take away the indents, like Sherlock can undo it, undo leaving another mark for Wato to carry.

But Wato merely chuckles against Sherlock’s ear, rubs her fingers along Sherlock’s wrists just as reverently as Sherlock presses her lips. Pulls her up into a kiss just as softly, and then some.

It doesn’t end with a soft and languid kiss. Oh no, it turns deep, until Sherlock moves over Wato because if you think Sherlock’s done with her girlfriend after _that,_ well, you’re gravely mistaken.

———————

(It ends with playing Wato the grandest of crescendos, with her moans surging through Sherlock.

Ends with _“You’re magnificent”_ and _“Wonderful, Wato, just like that”_ and _“You’re close, aren’t you? So close for me”_

Ends with Wato screaming, with Sherlock anchoring her through it, ears ringing, peppering kisses along Wato’s cheeks until Wato nudges her away, overstimulated.)

———————

It’s only when she’s absolutely certain Wato’s asleep, many, _many_ hours later, that Sherlock stretches over her to swipe their phones off the nightstand. Only when Wato’s mumbling subsides does Sherlock dare unlock each phone and transfer the file. Only after Wato cuddles closer does Sherlock breathe out and set the file as Wato’s alarm sound. Then sets up an alarm for a reasonable hour.

They’ve spent most of the day in bed, and as much as Sherlock’s content to spend another bringing Wato to symphonic pleasure, she reasons Wato would want their anniversary to involve more activities.

She doesn’t bother returning the phones, just dumps them on the free pillow – free, because Wato’s basically using her chest as a pillow. (Not like Sherlock’s arm around her back is giving her much room to move away.)

———————

And Sherlock waits. Nerves send her from bed too early, keep her from practicing the cello, keep her mind on the music piece, whisper all the things lacking, all the things she could’ve improved even if she knows it’s irrelevant, even if she knows Wato won’t notice but still, _but still._

It leads her to walking along the lake, to reciting all the different types of algae she spots, to categorising the fauna living beneath the surface. To her eyes wandering to the attic and admonishing herself for it. To delving deep into the ecological impact of certain types of algae when Wato comes out of the house.

They rise into a whispering mass of flies – _Too soon, she’s up too soon, she didn’t hear it_ – before falling silent as Wato stops in front of her. Leaving her ears ringing with the silence and her heart beating with the smile on Wato’s face, leaves her looking for air at the warmth in her eyes. Has her mind going a kilometre a minute when Wato takes her hands, snakes them between Sherlock’s and her pockets; pulls her closer and her lips leave her breathless and warm and so, so calm, and it –

It tastes like a _thank you._

“So that’s what you’ve been practicing all this time,” Wato mumbles once they part, and Sherlock blinks owlishly at her, mind still fuzzy, lips still tingling as they form a _What._

“You heard?”

Wato merely tilts her head, expression shifting like that time she saw a picture of the inspector’s puppies. “You set the alarm for 8.”

Oh. Oh did she?

“Yes, you did, Sherlock.” And it’s only at Wato’s laugh that Sherlock realises they’re walking back to the house, Wato’s hand snug in Sherlock’s pocket, still very much holding Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s lips twitch, thumb rubbing over Wato’s knuckles.

“Oh.” Wato stops not two steps away from the house and turns sharply so her ponytail snaps behind her. “Your present’s back home. I uh –” She ducks her head, bashful or embarrassed Sherlock can’t quite categorise before Wato looks up again. “I didn’t want it to break during the drive.”

_Oh?_

“So it’s big and breakable,” Sherlock says at length, grin stretching as Wato realises what Sherlock’s doing; realises what she’s unleashed, realises she’s stoked Sherlock’s curiosity. Shakes her head as Sherlock leans forward, another dozen observations at the tip of her tongue but she’s feeling merciful, so what she says instead is – “20 questions?”

———————

(Sherlock guesses it after 10 questions, but goes in a completely different direction, offers the wrong answer after all 20 questions have been spent, and pretends to sulk so Wato’s dubious look catches nothing.)

———————

“Should I expect more regular visits?” The groundskeeper asks, bordering on a snip but even that would require more effort than he’s putting in.

“In a manner of speaking.” Sherlock glances to where Wato’s distracted with the groundskeeper’s dog, a tiny, excitable little thing. She catches her lips curling upward and guides them into a playful grin. “We’ll be in touch.”

“Then keep the key.” He tosses the key back at Sherlock, face goes uncharacteristically soft for a moment before he turns back to his house. “I’ve got a spare anyway.”

Somehow it feels both heavy and light in her hands, and the oxymoron follows her even as they leave his house long behind. Like the attic filled with memories of another lifetime, belonging to a different person. Like the months she spent as a fugitive, like how during those months she kept worrying about Wato.

Lingers until Wato chases it away with an offhand question about the breed of the groundskeeper’s dog, chases it away with one of her adorable pouts, entirely because Sherlock’s sudden laughter.

———————

She finds her present lying in the middle of the sitting room, sitting proud atop the coffee table – a record player, a mix of the older models and the modern equivalent. Polished wood and glinting horn, with vinyls stacked next to it, most of Sherlock’s favourites and two she’s curious about.

And if Wato didn’t expect Sherlock to distract her immediately from unpacking, to pull her into the sitting room with a record already playing, music already filling the space around them, she hides it well; buries it under a delightful giggle, grown ever bigger at Sherlock’s little kisses along Wato’s cheek, ending with a “Happy anniversary.”

And Sherlock might not say the words, but she’s certain Wato can feel them against her chest, certain that’s the reason behind Wato’s smile going small and adoring and undeniably warm. And oh how she loves this woman.


End file.
